Dryers: Not So Normal Folk

Yes, there are good folk who can’t get on their feet,
Or who march to a unique beat with nothing sweet
To offer to placate and satiate the voracious appetite
Of the normal world into which they’ve been hurled,
While ordinary people live their very ordinary lives
In the ordinary way from dreary day to dreary day
All to stay satisfied without change and no dismay,
But some people live risqué on the speedway of life
While others are more passé like an old screenplay,
And still others are more Wednesday than Friday,
But all in all they don’t quite fit in with the in-crowd,
Whether they are loud or quiet, shut-in or shut-up;
Though how do you judge what is normal, anyway?
Are there formal rules? Does anyone have a clue?
Or is “normal” just the setting on the clothes dryer?

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Depression: Hope and Believe

When you’re trapped inside your head, strapped to your bed,
Churning inside and you can’t abide the sunlight
Streaming through the window, but you forgot to draw the curtain,
And you’re certain this day will flow in the worst way,
Like one poisoned stream in another hellish dream,
And you want to scream but you can’t find your voice,
And you feel like you’ve got no choice but to stay in the bay
Of depression with repression of all your tumultuous emotions
Because you don’t want to cause commotion,
So you reside in the prison of self with no one in whom to confide,
And you feel the hole in your soul . . . I know, I know;
I’ve careened thru the valley of shadows where many others have been,
And you are not alone even now, for we bow in service as your servants;
We know, we know, and we will walk with you and show you the way
To brighter days and lighter ways with love and compassion
In passionate determination to see you through, strong and true!
Just peer through the keyhole of your heart and make the start:
Unlock the door, open and fill the floor of your spirit
With an unimaginable company of compatriots,
Hand in hand as a band of friendly warriors to fight the blight
That soils your psyche and spoils your days! Do not dismay,
And don’t fret for fear of abandonment . . . We’ll be here to stay!
Hope and Believe
Hope and Believe
Hope and Believe

Snakes Slithering Thru Green Grass

After preening himself, he keenly eyed the woman
With mean intentions as he crawled up the tree . . .
Ah! And people do talk about the oldest profession
In the world in their obsession with lurid images
Without considering the slithering professional,
Who made the first case, then tried to fade away
With his notable gain and the stain he left behind,
Except he was constrained by the eternal Judge
In that first garden-turned-courtroom . . . Oh no!
What is oft-thought the oldest profession is close,
But the nuisance of jurisprudence is the eldest,
And the professional, very much like a prostitute,
We call an attorney! And what an awful journey
Have they made down throughout history while
Slithering boldly through fields of gold and silver!
Like the Serpent with Adam and Eve, they deceive
And receive an attractive sum
From their captive clients . . .
Oh, they are dutiful in painting a beautiful picture
Of bountiful prize, if you benignly sign your name,
And then the claim is sealed and the truth revealed:
Gain for the barrister, pain for the compliant victim,
But the obiter dictum is in the details of the papers,
And they have full right to whatsoever they claim
Without a fight and with no blame . . .
After all, you signed your full name!
Did God not condemn that first nefarious attorney
And his progeny to eat dirt in soil-covered shirts?
Ah, but it seems the dust they suck must be gold,
And the green, green grass grows ass-high for them,
These slithering, profit-making snakes,
Who make their life by fake and fraud!
Ah! Attorneys!

Falling Thru the Cracks

She broke her back and fell thru the cracks,
And it was a nasty basement, filthy encasement,
But nobody said ‘goodbye’ and no one heard her cry;
Sighing was all she had left, ‘cept lying to herself,
But one good lie would dry her tears despite her fear
Because she was alone with nobody near to hear;
No one missed her, and no one came for her,
                                                 And this pissed her,
But what could she do with broken back and lack of help?
Yelping would not keep her sane, so she chose to sleep
On a neat pile of rags, about which she could not brag,
But all in all she knew her situation was not unique;
Many had fallen thru the cracks with broken backs!

Refugee

Across the wasted land in the band with no home;
Across the raging sea, not where we want to be;
Across the beach sand and wave foam to be damned;
Across the earth so far from hearth, empty hand…
And where now shall we go and how shall we know?
And who will take us in and begin to heal the hurt?
And who will seal our hearts and bind our wounds?
And who will mind our needs and heed our cries?
Who will feed our children or give us fresh seed?
Who will bend to love and tend our deepest cares?
Or shall we be tossed and forever lost in the world?
Or shall we see the eye of heaven and say good bye?

Refugee

In the Sea of the Forgotten

He stares out his window at the world he cannot bear,
Hears the cars go by as tears well up in his eyes;
He’d steer a different course, but it’s all so unclear;
He’s sunk into the forgotten sea, drunk on cheap wine;
He smashes out his smoke, then strokes the glass rim;
He lights another cigarette, placing an imaginary bet;
He’s a gambler in illusion, delusion his one companion;
He looks at the phone atop his mountain of unread books;
He bets there’ll be no ring and lets himself cry again;
He recounts his sin, wonders if he can begin once more;
He wonders what’s in store for him on the other shore;
He spies the paper he tore laying on the suit he wore;
He blinks, takes a drag, and thinks, ‘Nice suit, eh?’
He waits for the rings that’ll never come, so he sings;
He sings a sad song about how he’ll wing his way above,
He knows, one day when the show’s over and
He’s under clover cover . . .
He stares out his window at the world he cannot bear.

Diabolus ex Machina

Disgusting display of emotion to cry
When we’ve got a new product to try!

Higher up, and fly the friendly sky
Brush once and get ’em squeaky clean
Eat the new beans like you mean it
While you wean your head off caffeine

Yea! Piss in the new bowl
See it go down the hole
So easy, like greasy

Dhole pack pets
And whole grain;
Roll the dice. . .
It’s a new game!

Evolution of markets
Revolution of life
Situation red alert
Ammunition real low
Let freethought flow

Once, twice, thrice real nice
And your heart is cold as ice
It’s the devil from the machine
Evil in the cogs and wheels
Makes you humble, makes you kneel!

Here in Marlboro Town

Here on the streets of Marlboro town you can hear the beat
Of a dozen drums as sand in the hourglass quickens its pace
To keep everyone in their right place in smoke-filled bars,
Inhaling tar and nicotine. It’s a sham and a shame, but no
One can blame anyone ~ hell! they still do ~ with pistols
In leather holsters, the weather outside is too damn cold
To abide, so someone buys another round, so you’re bound
To get drunk, sink deeper into funk here in Marlboro town.

You see, when the sun goes down on the town, if you can
Reach the teacher-preacher in search of forgiveness, but
Nothing is forgotten in this hell-hole where you sold your
Precious soul for two bits and another role of the dice;
Nice! But now you’ll pay any price for redemption to avoid
Execution in the revolution against the evolution of your
Heart, so dark; so you mark the time till midnight chimes
Amidst all the gunk and grime in the blight of a miserable
Little town called Marlboro, with dusty streets, rhythmic
Beats, as fire heats alcohol room after room for your doom.

Welcome one and all to Marlboro town!

Prophets-for-Profit & Blind Guides Guiding

Cunning eyes, gunning black hearts; they are teachers, preachers, and sensuous soul leechers;
Ravenous robbers, mind bobbers, they come to deadly deal, sly steal, and horrors to reveal;
Spirit rape draped behind veneer of wicked crepe as they sneer and smear the blood of virgin grape;
While Sélená stands grand on table land with sand in hand to blind and bind nefarious kind.

Have I lost my son when barely begun to reach inside to teach, and abide in love to walk above
Earthen care, to take our share in heavenly prize, and not fool’s gold in pathetic disguise?
And does the wind blow toxic waste of false prophets so base, who crawl behind to unwind
Poison thread to bind unsuspecting head now filled with lead to bring so low, an immortal blow.

Have I lost my daughter to rancid water, foul fodder of religious heresy of the modern Pharisee,
When love reigned from above for so long, where hearts belong and our voices chimed in one sweet song;
Is this now at an end, or shall Sélená send forth holy fire to bend mind and soul, and all remend,
Before peace forever’s lost, to cease confusion of delusion in seclusion ‘neath profusion of lies
… when say we our last goodbyes?

How much longer now shall so many bow and kowtow to prophets-for-profit and evangelist scum-bums?
How much longer now shall we turn blind eye, deaf ear, burn sensibility of genuine spirituality,
All to appease the sneeze of the sleaze whom God ne’er finds on his knees even himself to please?
How much longer now shall we sacrifice child, meek and mild, to the wild torrent of ones beguiled?

Not about God, nor celestial sod; not about numinous frights, nor luminous sprits; but celebration
Without hesitation, to be free to see with eyes wide open, and hear the near prance and happy dance
Of the pantheon of champions of the Everlasting One ~ Spirit and Son ~ as Sélená sweeps
Through stars and weeps for joy untold and bold, and this for us one and all, not to fall and crawl
… ah! will we stand tall?
.

Wisdom of the World: The One Path We Travel

Who is this Spirit, who raises kings and clings to the governments of the earth from birth?
What this Voice that begs for the beggar, yet rules all as nations rise and nations fall?
Who is She who enlivens with Life the child, man and wife, and heals to seal better days?
What this Divine majesty that sends the rain to end the pain of parched land, bone-dry sand?

It is the same One who leads along the same path everyone with seeds of love from above.
It is the same One who without tool fashioned our earthen home from his eternal tome.
It is the same One who shuns cruelty and adorns with beauty sky and sea and every tree.
It is the same One who bids us care for nature fair, and wild and free, for child so mild.

So the world is no mirage but numinous collage of living color, barrage of beauty untamed.
So the world is light and dark, day and night, and stark fire glow of the fabled will-o-wisp.
So the world is house for the grouse and mouse, and sheep and all that creeps and leaps.
So the world is painted chariot, tainted by time, charging on in course of life enlarging.

And who are we, then, to fight in angry spite; behind closed doors to whore the poor?
And who are we, then, to turn from charity in grave disparity, and all for health and wealth?
And who are we, then, to point accusing finger at heaven to leaven our hate with hellish bait?
And who are we, then, to despise in self-righteous guise what is given as gift for all to lift?

Are we so foolish, when immortal dove beauty loves, to abandon duty for ill-gained booty?
Are we so foolish, then, instead to save to pave our way to hell with ne’er a thought of death-bell toll?

God blessed them and gave them this directive: “Be fruitful and multiply. Populate the earth. I make you trustees (and stewards) of my estate, so care for my creation, and oversee and wisely govern the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, and every creature that roams across the earth.” And so, too, my loved ones, devote yourselves to loving one another. Love comes straight from God, and everyone who loves is born of God and truly knows God.